"What unhappy man? Unhappiness is no distinguishing singularity, is it?" said Marston, sharply.
"No, truly, you have well said," replied Doctor Danvers. "True it is that man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward. I speak, however, of your servant, Merton—a most unhappy wretch."
"Ha! you have been with him, you say?" replied Marston, with evident interest and anxiety.
"Yes, several times, and conversed with him long and gravely," continued the clergyman.
"Humph! I thought that had been the chaplain's business, not yours, my good friend," observed Marston.
"He has been unwell," replied Dr. Danvers; "and thus, for a day or two, I took his duty, and this poor man, Merton, having known something of me, preferred seeing me rather than a stranger; and so, at the chaplain's desire and his, I continued my visits."
"Well, and you have taught him to pray and sing psalms, I suppose; and what has come of it all?" demanded Marston, testily.
"He does pray, indeed, poor man! and I trust his prayers are heard with mercy at the throne of grace," said his companion, in his earnestness disregarding the sneering tone of his companion. "He is full of compunction, and admits his guilt."
"Ho! that is well—well for himself—well for his soul, at least; you are sure of it; he confesses; confesses his guilt?"
Marston put his question so rapidly and excitedly, that the clergyman looked with a slight expression of surprise; and recovering himself, he added, in an unconcerned tone—